


Scatter on the Breeze

by MadameFolie



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: F/F, Gender or Sex Swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 20:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10974948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: Genderswapped Onni/Reynir. That's it, that's the story.





	Scatter on the Breeze

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this week's theme: fusions and AUs.

_**Onni/Reynir** \- Rule 63_   
  


 

“You.” The grass seed falls from the woman’s hand. “I told you not to come back.” When she rises to her feet, she’s….actually, a lot shorter, Reynhildr realizes, most of what she remembers of the woman’s presence must have been. Um. Personality, she guesses. Her eyes are piercing below her hood, and her jaw set firm; the air around her nearly crackles with concentrated power. The cicadas are shrilling in the trees.  
  
“Wait!” She throws her hands up as fast as she can. That’s how it works with startled sheep. It’s not like humans are that different, right? “It’s just– I, um–” Wanted to talk. The woman, Turi’s sister, she doesn’t seem like much of a talker. But at least she’s not ripping her off the ground this time. Actually, now that she notices it, it’s almost like the ground itself is shifting. “I–”  
  
“What,” she –Onneli, that was it– growls. She seizes Reynhildr by the arm, pushing as if to turn her back towards the sea. Wow, she really is just as strong as Reynhildr remembers.  
  


—

  
Onneli’s hand are heavy. She has a farmer’s hands, Reynhildr thinks, like her grandparents used to. And they feel nice resting on her skull as she lays her head to Onneli’s knee to thread grasses together. She’s been chewing juniper berries again, and Reynhildr has a suspicion that if she steals a kiss from her, it will taste acrid and cool. Onneli’s fingers falter over the crown of her head, along her temple, almost as far as her nape if she’s bold or distracted. Once, she’s slid her fingers into the stem of Reynhildr’s braid. Her own hair is shorn short, coarse when Reynhildr rubs her palms along it the wrong way. It was kind of fun to watch the skin on her neck prickle from it and flush red.  
  
When Onneli pushes her down against their rough bedding, the stiff fur of her cloak, it’s all Reynhildr can do not to whimper: the way her breadth spreads her wide, her soft waist filling the whole brace of Reynhildr’s arms– she loves to let herself go adrift in the feel of it all.   
  
She likes to come bent over on her knees, Onneli fitted like a shield to her back, strong fingers splaying her open. She likes to come seated in her lap, desperate as she rolls against Onneli’s thumb and little else for pleasure but the too-sweet almost of it. She likes it even when she doesn’t come, too worn from the day or too cold or too any number of things– and Onneli buries her face in Reynhildr’s neck and holds her until the dawn unravels them at the edges.


End file.
